


Constantly on the Cusp

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Inspired by Twitter, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sherlock in Heels, and a dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: John always knew that Sherlock was good at disguise.  But he didn't anticipate how strongly this one would affect him.





	Constantly on the Cusp

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by events in the contact Twitterverse, which chronicles the ongoing adventures of Sherlock (@contactSH) and John (@contactJHW). In this universe most of season 4 (including The Final Problem) never happened. Johnlock is canon, Redbeard is a dog, Victor Trevor is Sherlock’s boyfriend from university, and Sherlock doesn’t have a sister. 
> 
> The inspiration came from a conversation on May 1 in which Sherlock mentioned that he once dressed in drag for a case. The conversation can be read here, but it’s not necessary to be familiar with it to enjoy the story: https://twitter.com/ContactSH/status/859036315698040832
> 
> The title comes from the lyrics to “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys, which was part of a public Spotify playlist that John posted.
> 
> _Simmer down and pucker up_   
>  _I’m sorry to interrupt it’s just I’m constantly_   
>  _On the cusp of trying to kiss you_   
>  _I don’t know if you feel the same as I do_   
>  _But we could be together, if you wanted to_
> 
> Many, many thanks to tellywhich for being my beta! This story is much the better for her input.

John sat back and scanned the interior of the very exclusive gentlemen’s club. Small groupings of tasteful, comfortable chairs and loveseats dotted the room, lit by soft, dim lights. In each was an exquisitely dressed woman holding court with at least three men, sometimes more. Male waiters in crisp white shirts and slim-cut black pants moved among them delivering drinks. Soft instrumental music was playing, interrupted occasionally by the musical trill of laughter and the clink of crystal. 

“So, what, exactly, are we doing here?” he asked Greg.

“Sherlock didn’t fill you in?”

“No.” He’d received an imperious text - _Come at once – SH_ \- with the address just as he was about to leave work. He’d barely had time to call Mrs. Hudson and arrange for her to look after Rosie before the Met patrol car had pulled up outside the clinic. 

Greg met his gaze. “Three women from three of the most popular escort services in the city have been murdered in the past two months.” He nodded at John’s look of astonishment. “We’ve been trying to keep it quiet. No need for a media panic. But if we don’t catch the killer soon, the press is going to start putting things together.”

“Any similarities between the victims?”

“You mean other than profession?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, other than that.”

Greg sighed. “They’re all former models, quite striking in appearance. They all had appointments to meet a client here--” 

He raised his eyebrows but Greg shook his head. “We looked into that first thing. Different clients, each, and each has an alibi. Someone approaches these women, convinces them to leave with him - without a fuss, mind you – then stabs them and dumps their body in a nearby alley.”

“This doesn’t exactly strike me as the place you’d expect to find a modern-day Jack the Ripper,” he said, looking around. “So, where’s Sherlock?”

A waiter appeared at the table, delivering two heavy, cut-glass crystal snifters of whiskey, and vanishing as quickly and as silently as he had appeared.

“Finishing up his disguise,” Greg said. “There’s been little enough to go on, even with Sherlock examining the crime scenes. Said he needed more direct data.”

John nodded. It made sense. Going undercover as a waiter would allow Sherlock to unobtrusively eavesdrop on any number of conversations as well as keep an eye on the movements of any prospective victims. And Sherlock was good at blending in like that. Hiding in plain sight, he called it. 

He tried not to think about the last time Sherlock had disguised himself as a waiter. 

“Which reminds me… I’ve got something for you.” Greg pulled a tiny piece of beige plastic out of his suit pocket and handed it to John. “Spare receiver. You’ll be able to hear Sherlock, but he won’t be able to hear you.”

“Ta,” he said, sliding it into his ear.

A door at the far end of the room opened and a woman walked in, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, including John. She was tall, with a graceful, feline stride. She wore knee-high black suede boots with four-inch stiletto heels, sheer black stockings, and a short red silk shift that clung to her hips like a living thing. 

She sauntered casually towards the bar. Her skin was pale, her lips a brilliant slash of red, the same shade as her dress. Her lustrous black hair was cut in a shapely bob, and she had a black mink stole draped across her shoulders. 

John could not take his eyes off her. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His trousers had grown uncomfortably snug, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and slid under his collar. 

The woman put a black leather clutch on the bar and shifted her weight to one hip, which pulled the red silk taut against her deliciously round arse. John’s fingers twitched with a sudden desire to run his palm over it, feel the heat underneath the cool slippery fabric. He swallowed and licked his lips. There were at least four inches of stockinged thigh visible between the hem of the dress and the top of the woman’s boots, and he could imagine lifting her dress, unzipping his fly and pressing himself against her, against the firm cleft—

“How in the _hell_ do women walk in these things?” Sherlock’s voice reverberated in his ear. “My calves are on fire.”

Greg made a muffled snort of laughter.

John sucked in a breath. The blood drained from his face, leaving him feeling as if he’d just been doused with a bucket of ice water. Sherlock? The woman at the bar was… was Sherlock? Dressed like… like…. and he’d been thinking about touching…and…. His brain stuttered to a halt. 

In his peripheral vision, he saw Greg push one of the glasses of whiskey towards him. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock he grabbed it and tossed it back in one swallow. 

“Bit of a shock, yeah?” Greg said. “I mean, he’s better looking in that get up than most women I know.”

He turned to look at Greg, mouth open, but for the life of him he could not get his brain to engage his mouth in gear and produce anything akin to speech. 

Greg smiled, shaking his head, and pushed the other glass towards John. “I think you need this more than I do, mate.”

At the bar, Sherlock was applying a new coat of lipstick, using his phone as a reflective surface to guide him. John could see his face in the mirror behind the bar. 

His face. John felt it like a punch to his gut. He’d always been drawn to Sherlock and his strange, angular beauty. But Sherlock with makeup on was… well, stunning. Eyeliner and eyeshadow accentuated his long, oblique eyes, making them look enormous and exotic, framed by thick lashes mascaraed in black. The lipstick did the same for his mouth, bringing those plush curves out in sharp relief, the vibrant red glowing against his pale skin. John was helpless to stop himself from thinking about how it would feel to have those lips on his, or, better, those long, nimble fingers tugging down his zip, pulling him out and that gorgeous lush mouth stretched around his—

“Well, now we wait,” Sherlock said, with a sigh. He’d lowered his phone and slid the lipstick back into his purse. A luminescent pink drink in a martini glass had appeared at his right elbow. 

John swallowed again, and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to catch his breath. What was wrong with him? He usually managed to keep a tight rein on his fantasies, especially where Sherlock was concerned.

His phone vibrated against his thigh and he jumped, then fumbled it out of his pocket and swiped at it a few times.

It was a text from Sherlock. _All right?_ it read. 

He looked up at the mirror over the bar to see the reflection of Sherlock frowning at him. 

_Yeah, fine,_ he texted back, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. He slid his phone into the pocket of his coat and stood. “Loo?” he asked Greg.

“Back that way,” Greg replied, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. 

He made a beeline for it, nearly taking out a waiter with a tray full of drinks. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he was in a stall, his back against the securely locked door.

He rubbed his hands over his face again as he sucked in a breath of air and exhaled heavily. Okay, fine. He thought Sherlock in drag was hot. No big deal, really. It had been a while since he’d been intimate with anyone – or had even thought about it – and clearly his cock had had enough of the drought and had hijacked his brain.

And, truthfully, he’d always been attracted to Sherlock that way, full stop. In drag, dressed as a priest, in his coat with the collar up, in a dressing gown and pyjama pants, wrapped in a sheet – he’d never been picky. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

He palmed himself through his jeans, a shudder running down his spine. Leaning forward, he braced his right hand against the wall and reached for his zip. 

And stopped himself, clenching his left hand in a fist. This wasn’t going to work. He was on a case, for God’s sake! What was he thinking? Sherlock needed him to be sharp and alert, not drowsy and sated with a brain soaked in endorphins. 

He exhaled and straightened, grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes, and started mentally reciting the names of the bones of the hand. Which wasn’t actually all that helpful as he found himself imagining Sherlock’s hands, his graceful long fingers, touching his phone, touching his violin, touching him…

Growling in frustration, he slammed his fist against the stall door. Maybe the bones of the feet would work better.

No. That was worse.

He shoved the door open and went to the sink, turned on the cold tap and sluiced water over his hot cheeks. Bracing himself on his arms, he glared at his reflection in the mirror. _Pull yourself together, Watson,_ he told himself sternly. _You can do better than this._

The thought reminded him of Mary, and that worked to cool him off like nothing else had. He pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser and scrubbed them across his face. 

“Oh. Hello,” Sherlock’s voice was in his ear, greeting someone, and he hurried out of the loo and back into the club. 

There was a man standing next to Sherlock at the bar, back to the room. His reflection in the mirror over the bar was entirely unprepossessing – brown hair, dark eyes, attractive in a bland, rugged sort of way. He was dressed in jeans, black t-shirt, and a leather bomber jacket. 

“Another? Why, thank you,” Sherlock said. The man stepped closer, his hand going around Sherlock’s waist. A beat, and then his hand slid lower, cupping Sherlock’s arse through the red silk. 

Sherlock was saying something, but John couldn’t make it out. His head was full of white noise. He could feel the flush rising in his cheeks. His pulse was pounding in his forehead and his hands were clenched into fists. 

He started to stalk towards the bar, but there was something tight wrapped around his upper arm, holding him back. He growled under his breath and tried to shake it off, to no avail.

“…John. JOHN!” Greg’s shout finally pierced the fog around him and he turned to find the DI gripping his arm tightly. “Arresting him on solicitation’s not going to cut it,” he hissed. “I can’t hold him long enough on that charge. I need Sherlock to get more.”

He inhaled shakily, the rush of anger ebbing, and sank into one of the chairs. Greg was looking at him with a mixture of compassion and concern. “Listen, mate,” he said, “it’s none of my business, I know, but… you really need to figure this out, and soon.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. If he was being honest with himself, he’d been struggling ever since he’d moved back into Baker Street. It felt so comfortable, so familiar, so much like… home. Part of him wanted that deeply, wanted to go back to the way things had been before Sherlock had thrown himself off the roof at Barts. But there was another part of him – an angry, hurt part of him – that couldn’t let go of all the things that had happened since then. Sherlock’s fall, and return; meeting Mary; her betrayal, and her death. 

He never thought he’d view the two years of grief and loneliness after Sherlock faked his own death as the easiest, most uncomplicated time of his life. 

“Look alive, boys,” Greg said, under his breath, and John glanced up to see Sherlock and the man heading out of the club. 

He took a deep breath, then stood and turned to Greg. “What’s the pl—”

Sherlock yelped in his ear, a shocked sound, bright with pain.

He sprinted for the doors to the club, heart in his throat, panic surging through him. Slamming them open, he skidded to a stop on the sidewalk, looking frantically to the right and left, searching for Sherlock’s distinctive silhouette. 

“Alley!” Greg shouted as he ran past, and John followed. They raced across the street, dodging a cab that honked stridently at them, and headed for a dim space between two buildings. 

John slowed as he approached, blinking to adjust his eyes to the lack of light. He could see Sherlock halfway down the alley, back to the wall, clutching his left upper arm. The mink stole was hanging off one shoulder and the wig was lying crumpled on the ground at his feet. The suspect was facing Sherlock, and John saw light glint off a blade in his hand. 

“Thought you could trick me, eh?” the man spat. “Make me think you’re a woman?” He lunged at Sherlock. Sherlock evaded him, but he was clearly off balance, wobbling unsteadily in the high-heeled boots. The suspect grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, spinning him and slamming him face first into the wall. John heard a muffled grunt and a quick intake of breath. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” the man hissed. “You’ll scream and bleed and die just the same as them.” He gripped Sherlock’s hair at the back of his head and slammed his face into the wall again, then pressed up against him. Sherlock was trying to fight back, John could see, but between the heels and the head blows he couldn’t get any leverage. 

“Say goodnight,” the suspect said, and drew the hand with the knife back. 

John didn’t remember moving, but all at once he was there, his hand clamped around the suspect’s wrist. The suspect turned his head to look at him, eyes and mouth wide in shock. John pressed hard on the tender spot right below the thumb, and the suspect yelped and dropped his knife. John calmly yanked his arm up behind his back. When the suspect twisted to face him, protesting loudly, John hit him with a right cross that knocked him to the ground. 

Then Greg was there, with another officer, and they were putting the guy in handcuffs and reading him his rights. 

He looked back at Sherlock, who had turned around and was leaning back against the wall. Only then did he register that Sherlock’s arm and face were covered in blood. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he gasped, going to his side, “you’re hurt.”

“It’s n-nothing,” Sherlock said, but the quaver in his voice said something else.

“Let me see,” he said gently as he pried Sherlock’s fingers away from his arm. There was a long deep slash just below his deltoid muscle, likely made with the blade John had seen. He probed at it carefully. “It seems to be clotting up okay, but you’ll need stitches.”

Sherlock exhaled and John moved to check his face. There was a cut above his left eye; shallow, but bleeding profusely, as scalp wounds would. John dug in his pocket for his handkerchief, folded it into a small square, and then held it to Sherlock’s forehead, taking Sherlock’s left hand and pressing it to the cloth. “Keep pressure on it. I’ll call for an ambulance.” 

***

“I’m sorry, Mrs. H, I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be here. Did Rosie get down all right?”

“Oh, yes, John, she’s just fine, don’t you worry about her.”

“If you don’t mind, could you—”

“Yes, of course. I’ve got the monitor and if she wakes I’ll make her a bottle. You just take care of Sherlock, you hear?”

John sighed. It was a little ridiculous that people were more concerned with him looking after his adult flatmate than his infant daughter. But, still – Mrs. Hudson was a godsend to him and Rosie. “Yeah, will do. Thanks.” He thumbed the phone off and slipped it in the pocket of his jacket. 

“This is ludicrous,” Sherlock snapped. “In the time we’ve been here waiting you could have taken care of this at the flat and we could be on our second cup of tea.”

He walked over to where Sherlock was perched on the edge of the hospital bed in the narrow examination bay, cheered to see his usual imperious disposition returning. “Yeah, well, I don’t fancy trying to stitch you up in a non-sterile environment.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Oh, like here is any worse than the kitchen at home.”

He did have to admit that Sherlock kept the kitchen fairly clean. Cluttered with equipment and chemicals, but clean. Couldn’t afford to have contaminants in the latest eyeball experiment. “I’ll still take A&E for a proper stitch-up.”

“Well, now that we’re here, can’t you take care of it?” Sherlock asked, shivering a little. He was still wearing the dress, now sans the mink stole, and the air in the bay was cold. 

He shucked off his jacket and put it around Sherlock’s shoulders, being careful not to disturb the temporary bandage the paramedics had put on his arm. “I don’t have privileges here.” He glanced at his watch. They’d been waiting over an hour already, and from the sounds of the conversations he’d overheard as they came in, they’d be waiting a while more. There’d been a massive accident on the A10 and most of the injured were getting sent here. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No one will notice.” 

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before trying to single-handedly disarm someone with a switchblade.”

“I’d’ve been fine if it wasn’t for these shoes,” Sherlock said sullenly. “Threw my center of gravity off.” He looked at John and John could see the exhaustion in his eyes, behind a thin façade of irritation. “John. Please?”

“All right,” he said. He rolled up his sleeves and went hunting through the cabinets for the supplies he needed. 

He came back to the bed with a couple of suture kits, a few pairs of gloves, a syringe, and some lidocaine. The bed was a modern one, with foot controls for raising and lowering, and he fiddled with it until Sherlock was at the right level for him to work. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he cleaned the wound, then readied the syringe.

“I don’t need that.”

He looked up, frowning. “It’s just a topical.”

Sherlock met his gaze. “It’ll hurt when it wears off, and I won’t be used to the pain. I’ll be… tempted.”

His stomach churned, as it always did when he thought about Sherlock and drugs, and he clamped down on the urge to say something snarky, a knot in his throat. “All right,” he said as he looked around the room. “Uh… give me a minute.”

Peeling off the gloves, he went out into the hallway. A short way down, there was an area with tea and coffee and a cooler full of ice and water bottles. He scooped up a cup of ice and returned to the room. Once back he dumped the ice into a flannel, twisted it closed, and put it against the wound in Sherlock’s arm. “Hold that there,” he commanded. 

While Sherlock iced his arm, John pulled his gloves back on, opened one of the suture kits, and threaded a needle. “You ready?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded and pulled the ice-filled flannel away. 

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

John put in the sutures as fast as he could, but Sherlock still looked woozy once he had finished, the color gone from his face, smudged eyeliner and lipstick standing out in sharp relief. “All right?” he asked quietly as he wrapped gauze around the wound. Sherlock nodded, but his breathing was shaky. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in sympathy and got him a cup of water. 

While Sherlock drank, he found a basin and poured some warm water into it, then dumped the ice into the sink and soaked the flannel in the basin. “Let’s look at that cut on your head, then,” he said, lowering the bed a little and positioning himself in between Sherlock’s knees. 

Working slowly and steadily, he managed to clean most of the dried blood off Sherlock’s face and from around the cut. Unlike the slash on his arm, the cut above his eye was jagged, but not as deep. A couple of butterfly bandages should take care of it. 

He dampened a square of gauze with antiseptic and applied it to the cut. Sherlock winced and pulled away. “Ow,” he complained.

“I know it stings but try to hold still,” John murmured.

Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. 

John cleaned the wound thoroughly, then applied a couple of bandages to hold it together. He tilted Sherlock’s head back and forth, his hand on Sherlock’s jaw, examining his work with a critical eye. 

Everything looked good. He was pleased to see that Sherlock’s color had returned. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, fixing John with his intense gaze. He had always marveled at how the color of Sherlock’s eyes could shift, from light grey to icy blue to almost green. Right now they were a warm blue, light but deep, the color of the summer sky. A gentle smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” John replied. His heart thumped erratically and he swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. There was something deeply satisfying about taking care of Sherlock. He felt a rush of affection for him, for this complicated, infuriating, fantastic man who, he had to admit, despite everything that had happened between them since, had saved him from the nothingness and meaninglessness his life had become after Afghanistan. 

A small frown appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows and he tilted his head, his eyes flitting up and down John’s face. Deducing something about him, no doubt. 

They had been in this position so many times. Close together, in danger or just afterwards, sharing space, sharing the excitement, adrenalin surging through their veins. The giddy rush of the challenge, the game. 

And so many times John had felt this urge. To touch Sherlock, to hold him, to kiss him. To communicate his feelings in more than just words. To express his admiration, his appreciation, his affection, his… love. 

His hand was still cupping Sherlock’s jaw. Giving in to his impulse, he brushed his thumb lightly along Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

Because he did love Sherlock. Not just as a friend, or a brother in arms, but in a way that was deep, and complicated, and that he didn’t fully understand. As a part of him. The other half of him. 

He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch at the touch. Sherlock’s eyes were focused on his now, his pupils wide. His frown had cleared, but his gaze held a mixture of yearning and hesitancy that made John’s heart ache. 

Greg had been right. It was time they figured this out. 

He exhaled, gathering up his courage. Then, with heart pounding, he leaned forward. 

The kiss was gentle, tentative, just a light brush of his mouth against Sherlock’s. The lipstick felt cool and slick against his lips, familiar and yet somehow strange. He slid his hand down from Sherlock’s jaw to his shoulder, thumb lightly tracing the tendons in his long neck.

He felt Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen and his heart sank. Clearly he’d misunderstood. He backed off, thoughts whirling through his head. Could he pass this off as adrenaline-induced temporary insanity? An overreaction to Sherlock getting hurt? Lack of sleep thanks to Rosie? 

No. He wasn’t going to lie to Sherlock, or himself. He was going to be honest about his feelings and accept whatever Sherlock’s reaction was. He’d made a pass at Sherlock before and been turned down, and it hadn’t changed anything. Much. Maybe it would be the same this time. 

Then Sherlock’s hand slid around to the back of his neck and he drew John close, his breath damp against John’s face, his mouth on John’s warm and insistent. 

Relief flooded through him, so strong it made him dizzy. He smiled against Sherlock’s mouth as he cupped his narrow shoulders and traced the shape of his lips with his tongue. Sherlock shivered, his mouth opening in a breathy gasp, an invitation John couldn’t ignore. 

God, the taste of him. It was better than he’d ever imagined, indescribable and intoxicating, earthy and masculine, like rare single-malt Scotch.

Sherlock leaned forward, the heels of his boots making a soft click as they touched the floor. He carded his fingers through the hair at the nape of John’s neck; his other hand wound around John’s waist, fingers slipping nimbly down the back of his jeans, tugging his shirt out. 

John slid his hands around Sherlock’s hips, palming his round arse through the dress. It felt just as good as he had imagined it would, firm and warm under the cool, soft silk. He pulled away from Sherlock’s mouth, rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “This… this is alright, then?” he panted.

“What do you think?” Sherlock rasped, his voice ragged, as he pulled John against him, giving John unmistakable evidence of his interest in the sensation of his erection hard against John’s thigh. 

A shiver of joy shimmied down John’s spine. He wanted – oh, God, there was _so_ much he wanted. He wanted everything. He wanted to strip Sherlock naked, touching and tasting every part of him. He wanted Sherlock in his mouth, and wanted to be inside him. He wanted to make Sherlock scream, and cry out, and beg. His head spun with imagining it. 

Inhaling shakily, he reined himself in. No need to rush things. Start with something simple.

He sank down to his knees, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s legs, lifting the hem of his dress. Underneath, Sherlock was wearing a black garter belt, clipped to the stockings that came halfway up his thighs, and black satin panties trimmed in black lace that were doing little to contain his erect cock. John noticed that there were several damp spots across the fabric, tracing the path from quiescent to hard. He swallowed audibly, and ran his finger lightly down the impressive bulge. 

Sherlock groaned and leaned back against the hospital bed, his hands clamped on the edge. 

John slid his fingers under the waistband of the panties and tugged them down to rest just under Sherlock’s balls, which was as far as they would go with the stockings clipped to the belt. But that was far enough to free Sherlock’s cock, flushed and hard, foreskin drawn back, head glistening with pre-come. He sucked in a breath and wet his lips, shivering at the sight of Sherlock, exposed, pale skin and dark, wiry hair, framed in black satin and lace. “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, glancing up Sherlock’s lean, narrow body. 

“Took you long enough to notice.” Sherlock’s eyes were incandescent, arresting even under half-lowered lids.

“Oh, I noticed before, believe me.” He heard Sherlock inhale to reply, and he really didn’t want to talk about this now – he didn’t want to talk _at all_ , right now – and so he gripped the base of Sherlock’s cock firmly with one hand, licked a long stripe up his shaft, then sucked the head into his mouth. 

Sherlock blew his breath out in a great sigh and threw his head back, bracing himself on his arms. “Oh. John.” he murmured, in a throaty velvet rumble that made John’s cock twitch. 

Contrary to what people probably thought, it wasn’t the Army that had taught John Watson that he liked giving head. That had happened when he’d played rugby, and the combination of adrenaline, sweat, testosterone, and communal showers had led to a little experimentation. 

The Army had made him _good_ at it. 

The lessons from which he applied now. He started a slow, gentle in-and-out rhythm, lips firm, hollowing his cheeks out for pressure as he tongued the sensitive juncture between head and shaft with each stroke. Something simple and not too demanding, something he could keep up for hours, if need be.

He felt Sherlock’s hand on his head, fingers combing through his hair, curving lightly against his skull. He glanced up and was surprised to see Sherlock looking down at him, that gentle half-smile on his face again. 

He looked a little complacent. Time to shake things up a bit.

John took a deep breath, then relaxed his throat and slid his mouth down the length of Sherlock’s cock, taking him deep. 

Sherlock shuddered, his fingers tightening in John’s hair. 

He pulled back a little, then slid down again, fast and hard. His nose was buried in Sherlock’s pubic hair, dark and curly, more coarse than the hair on his head. John sucked in a breath through his nose, delighting in the musky smell, sweat and pre-come and maleness. 

He continued this for a while, with the occasional brush of teeth that made Sherlock shiver and moan. Then he would pull back and concentrate on the head with lips and tongue for a while, and then take him deep again.

Both of Sherlock’s hands were back to gripping the side of the bed. He was panting, thrusting his hips forward erratically. “Ah, _fuck_ , John, please,” he groaned. 

Pleased with his efforts – Sherlock resorting to cursing was a sure sign that his brain was off-line – he placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip to hold him still, while he concentrated on speeding up his rhythm. With the other hand he fondled Sherlock’s balls where they lay against the satin panties, tugging and rolling them in a counterpoint to the movements of his mouth. 

Sherlock gave a strangled cry and flung his right leg over John’s shoulder, the stiletto heel digging into the small of John’s back as Sherlock thrust forward demandingly. 

Heart thumping, he gazed up through his lashes at Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him. He’d never seen anything as erotic or beautiful as this, Sherlock unstrung by passion. Face and neck flushed, tendrils of dark hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead, that lovely mouth open and panting. He looked wrecked, except for his eyes. They’d turned a vibrant blue-green color that was almost electric in intensity. John felt as if his skin was heating up wherever Sherlock’s gaze struck it.

It took just a few more passes, stroking firmly against the frenulum with his tongue, and Sherlock stiffened and came, groaning, breath hissing out through clenched teeth as his cock pulsed in John’s mouth. 

John pulled off and swallowed, keeping a light caress going on the shaft with his hand until Sherlock twitched sharply and then sagged against the edge of the bed, shifting quickly from pleasured to overstimulated. 

Panting, John rose up on his knees and yanked his jeans open, his own neglected cock pressing, hard and aching, against his pants. He pushed the waistband down with one hand, fumbling his cock out with the other, and had barely gotten his fingers wrapped around it before he was shuddering and coming all over himself. 

He leaned forward and rested his head against Sherlock’s hip, sucking in deep breaths, trying to calm his thundering heart. Had he seriously just done that? Sucked his flatmate off in A&E and had a wank afterwards? What the fuck was he thinking? 

Something brushed against his cheek. Sherlock’s fingers, cool and light, running over his face, through the hair at his temple. Then they dropped down, clenching in the collar of his shirt, tugging him upwards. 

John tucked himself back into his pants and buttoned his jeans, then got to his feet with a groan, knees creaking. Christ, when would he remember that he wasn’t twenty anymore?

Sherlock looked thoroughly debauched, hair mussed, lipstick smeared, dress rucked up around his hips, still hanging out of his underwear. But his eyes were clear, and still that brilliant shade of blue-green, although not as intense as before. “ _John_ ,” he said in a low murmur as he pulled him close. “You continually surprise me.” He leaned forward and kissed John, warm and gentle and full of promise. “But next time let me help with that.”

“By all means,” he replied, smiling, settling in between Sherlock’s knees, stroking his thigh lightly. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, leaning on each other, breathing each other’s breath, taking occasional, slow tastes of each other’s mouths. 

All at once he became aware of the sound of footsteps, hurried, coming closer. “Sherlock,” he hissed in warning, with barely enough time to help Sherlock tuck himself back into his panties and tug the red silk dress down over his garters before the privacy curtain was pushed aside with a loud rattle. 

A young man – a resident, by his white coat – burst into the bay, his eyes fixed on the clipboard in his hand. “Someone needed stitches?” he asked. Then he looked up and his eyes grew wide as he took in Sherlock’s disheveled appearance, hair askew, makeup ruined, the red silk dress lined and crumpled, leaning against the bed in four-inch stilettos, grinning at him like a maniac. 

John sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Yes, well, ah… someone already came by and, uh, took care of it. As you see.” He indicated the gauze bandage on Sherlock’s arm. 

“Someone already….” The resident’s brows drew together. He looked down at the papers and then back over his shoulder at the rest of A&E. “But they said you’d been waiting… who took care of it?”

“John Wat—” Sherlock started to say, his eyes glinting with manic glee.

“I, uh… I didn’t catch his name,” John interrupted quickly. “Young man, like you, in a coat like yours. Resident, I think. Said he had a few moments free.”

“But he didn’t have the chart?” The resident lifted the board in his hand.

“Ah – no, no, he said he’d take care of all that later.”

The resident frowned, and shook his head. “Highly irregular.” He looked at John. “Did he give him anything for pain?”

“Oxytocin!” Sherlock crowed.

“No, no, nothing, it’s not that serious,” John said, quickly. “Just a cut. If you can discharge us, we’ll be on our way.”

The resident eyed him suspiciously.

John motioned, with a tilt of his head, to the bustle of sound and movement in the rest of A&E. “I think there’s a lot of other folks who need help more than us right now, don’t you?” he said, in his best Captain Watson voice.

It seemed to work. The resident sighed, then scribbled a signature on the bottom of a sheet of paper. He handed the clipboard to Sherlock to sign, then tore off the bottom copy and gave it to him. With one last glare at the two of them, he left the bay, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

“Toodleloo,” Sherlock burbled, wiggling the fingers of his right hand at the retreating form. 

John stifled a chuckle, torn between amusement and chagrin. He grabbed his jacket from the bed and draped it back around Sherlock’s shoulders. “You’re punch-drunk on adrenaline and sex, love. Let’s get you home.” He slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist to steady him.

“Home. Does that mean bed?” Sherlock purred, teetering on his heels, reaching down to grab a handful of John’s arse to steady himself.

“It does, but not quite in the way you mean it,” John said, grinning.

“We’ll see about that.”

***

John stood at the side of Sherlock’s bed, rubbing his hair dry with his towel, looking down affectionately at Sherlock, sprawled naked like a starfish under his blankets in the middle of his bed, snoring loudly. 

As he had expected, once they had hailed a cab and were headed for Baker Street, Sherlock’s giddiness began to give way to drowsiness. Between going undercover, locating the target, then being assaulted and having your flatmate stitch you up without anesthetic, it had been an adrenaline-fueled night. Small wonder that Sherlock would crash once things cooled down. 

_Not to mention getting kissed by said flatmate, and getting a blow job in the bargain,_ said a little voice in the back of his head. 

John sighed, stomach fluttering. Part of him – most of him, if he was being honest – wanted to crawl into bed next to Sherlock and watch him sleep as he drifted off himself. 

But he hadn’t asked if that was what Sherlock wanted, and now that didn’t seem like it was going to be possible. Sherlock was out cold, and it felt petty to rouse him for something as unimportant as where he, John, should spend the night. 

He sighed, trying to master the disappointment that weighed heavy in his chest. There would be other nights. Wouldn’t there? 

_Unless this was just a one-off_ , the little voice in his head said. _An anomaly, the aftermath of fear and adrenaline._ The flutter in his stomach hardened into a cold knot. 

He shoved the voice away irritably, draped the towel over his shoulders, and turned to leave the room.

Sherlock broke off mid-snore and raised his head, turning it from side to side. He stopped when he saw John and blinked at him. “Problem?”

“I, er… I just wasn’t sure… I didn’t know….”

“You said home meant bed.”

“Well, yes… I… I have a bed upstairs….”

Sherlock’s head flopped back down. “No.”

John blinked, unsure exactly how to interpret that.

Sherlock’s hand came out from underneath the covers, palm up, fingers extended. “Stay. Please.”

A tendril of warmth curled through his belly, loosening the knot slightly. He took a deep breath, and made his way over to the other side of the bed, so Sherlock wouldn’t have to lay on his injured arm to look at him. Sherlock shifted over slightly to make room for him, and after he put the baby monitor on the nightstand he slid into the bed, settling on his back, arms tucked behind his head. 

Almost as soon as he had stilled, Sherlock moved, flinging an arm and a leg over John’s body, plastering himself up against John’s side like a limpet, tucking his head underneath John’s chin.

John chuckled, even as he was trying to deal with a sudden mouthful of Sherlock’s hair. “Comfortable?”

“Extremely,” came the muffled response. 

He tried to go to sleep, but the knot in his stomach refused to dissipate entirely. Hopes and fears and questions buzzed around the inside of his head like angry bees. He tried to relax, slow his breathing, calm his frantic heart, but it wasn’t working. 

Sherlock moved his hand to rest on John’s bare chest. “Stop thinking. We’ll figure it out in the morning.” 

John sighed. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand slowly percolated through his body, quieting his thoughts, relaxing his muscles. He brought his arm down around Sherlock’s thin shoulders and hugged him, pressing a kiss into the top of Sherlock’s head. “Okay.”

Sherlock raised his head, his gaze sharp and bright despite his weariness. “I’m serious. It’ll be fine. It’s all fine.”

Grinning, John kissed him, sweet and soft and gentle. “I know. Now go to sleep.”

Sherlock hummed, tongue flicking out to lick his lips, then he kissed John back and settled back against his side.

And John let the soothing rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing lull him to sleep.


End file.
